Of Pride and Country
by StephODell
Summary: Even in the midst of financial crisis and Swine Flu, Canada is a strong country. A "what if" involving a human's interaction with their nation, and just how surreal the whole thing is. Slight UKxUS
1. Of Pride and Country

Author's Notes: This one slipped out naturally, almost _too_ naturally. I finished it within several hours, stopping my own frantic typing to check a fact or a phrase here and there. I have _never_ written so much so fast, especially not at _seven in the morning_. *Takes a deep breath* That having been said, I should explain I concieved the concept while plotting an entry into a fanfic contest on the _United Nations RP Board. _I tried to push for USxUK without it being akward, but there is overloads of drippy fangirling in here, so please excuse that. _BUT DON'T GET THE IDEA THAT IT'S ALL SELF-CENTERED NATION FUCKING!_ There is _none_ of that. Before you bother asking, yeah, that is me, yes, a lot of the facts about me in this are true, and are pulled from deep personal experience. This story was just pent up and needed to get out, so _excuse me_ for fangirling on you.

That having been said, please review and enjoy. **If I get enough response, I will post new chapters**. If not, this fic is done, and there's no need for more.

---

The streets were crowded. It was easy to get tousled around on them. The girl was used to this. She was used to getting roughly shoved by a person walking the opposite way. She was, after all, going against the tide of the crowd. Common sense would dictate walking along the buildings, out of the crowded flow, but then again, when did she ever have common sense, right?

It was a strange sensation when her eyes darted over the unassuming figure coming up the flow of the crowd towards her. She noted the violet eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses, the wheat-coloured hair that fell just above his shoulders in gentle waves. His warm winter coat with its fur trim was not entirely out of place in the wet, chilly Vancouver fall, but the fuzzy bear he carried in his arms was.

It was huge. That had to be the biggest stuffed bear she'd ever—OOF!

It happened so suddenly. She'd been fixated on the bear, being held by the unassuming, yet amazingly cute man, and walked right into him. The impact sent her careening off to the left, off the curb, into the street. Stumbling, she regained her balance, and yelled back at the man.

"Hey watch where you're—"

The look in his eyes caused her to freeze. They were full of fear. In an instant, he pushed easily through the crowd, the bear in his arms dropping to the sidewalk, off the curb, flying towards her. Time seemed to slow to an absolute crawl as he grabbed her, pulling her to his chest, and planting his feet firmly.

"Don't be scared," she heard him whisper softly before the whole world seemed to come to a crashing halt.

---

It was a moment or two before the girl opened her eyes nervously. The man holding her seemed in pain, his eyes squeezed shut, and his mouth set in a hard line. Pulling back a smidge, she noted that there was a truck behind him. It had hit him.

A truck had hit him. And they were both alive.

The truck, in fact, was _dented_. She could see it, even with the young man still in the way. It was almost as if the truck had hit a tree, or a telephone poll. _Or a cow_, the girl's brain spat out suddenly, remembering an accident from her early childhood. _Like when Nana and Mom and me hit that cow, going home from Vancouver. Only…the cow thing was way messier than this._ And it had been. Mom had told her not to look, but she did anyway. There was an eye dangling from the headlight, she remembered with a shutter. An entire eye, dangling by the retinal cords.

The young man holding her made a harsh sound, almost like a shuttered gasp, and a trickle of blood escaped his lips. The girl looked at the young man with wide-eyed terror.

"Oh gawd, oh…gawd…you're…oh gawd…"

The man seemed to smile then, a pained smile, but a smile nonetheless. "At least…you're not hurt…" he managed to gasp before sinking to his knees in a near faint.

"Someone get an ambulance or something!" the girl was screaming, trying to support the man. She fell to her knees, and held the man to her chest, trying to support him, trying to help in any way she could. That was how she was. She was a Canadian, goddamnit! Canadians _help_ people!

There were the sounds of people calling for help, phones being dialled. The driver of the truck had gotten out to look at his vehicle, pushing his ragged and greasy cap back on his head in astonishment at the extensive damage done to it. The whole centre of the heavy grill was dented in, like it had collided with a steel wall. Like it had been hit head on by a _bull elephant_.

The girl shut out the white noise around her; the muffled gasps, the intrigued murmurs, the yelling and arguing and honking of horns, because _every damned driver in Vancouver seemed to be as rude as humanly possible_. She shut it all out, without much success, and concentrated on the man in her arms.

He was handsome, she noted to herself (in a way that made her slap herself inwardly, and yell at herself, reminding her _she had a boyfriend_!), and even with his face twisted in pain, she could see the boyish beauty of it. An annoyingly long curl of hair fell over his face, which she brushed away gently, only to have him twitch and moan in response. _At least he isn't dead_, she thought with a relieved inward sigh. Her eyes studied him, his hair, his glasses, and the peculiar goggles on his head.

They were very retro: fighter pilot goggles, more than likely from World War II, or around that era. They were so out of date they were chic. She felt envious of how good they looked on him suddenly. _His father must have been a pilot…no, more like his grandfather…_She looked at him again. _He couldn't be older than me…_ She inwardly hated being twenty-three just then. She felt old, for no good reason.

She saw the starched collar of a nice suit under his jacket, topped off perfectly with a brown tie. A brown suit and a white winter jacket; an interesting combination, one she realized she liked, and had to terminate that tangent of naughty thought before the train de-railed completely.

While she agonized over the man in her arms, he had cracked his lids open, and, making eye contact with the bear on the sidewalk, he mouthed the words, "_Get Alfred_."

The bear only nodded, got up, and trotted off unnoticed into the crowds, disappearing in seconds. A seemingly impossible task for a bright white polar bear the size of a medium sized dog.

The girl stared after it. _Was that…a polar bear…just now…? Couldn't be…_

The girl looked down at the man again, and realized she didn't know his name at all. She cast her glance around for any obvious identification, but saw none. Not a single shred. Which seemed impossible, especially for a country girl who carried her entire wallet and purse with her everywhere she went. Everything: her BCID, her Social Insurance number, even her Care Card. People laughed at her, but she felt that being prepared was important. Because you never know.

Tomorrow, you could get H1N1 and die in the street somewhere.

Or get hit by a truck.

She shuttered, the realization sinking in more. Hastings was a busy street to begin with, but this was clogging it up three kinds of bad. The looky-loos weren't helping any, _that_ was for damned sure.

Stop _fucking_ staring! She wanted to scream it at them, but she couldn't. Damn it all to hell anyway…

The ambulance arrived about then in a scream of sirens, and two paramedics stepped out of the ambulance that had an "On Strike" sticker plastered across the side, and jogged briskly to the man's side. She never let go, and they never asked her to.

After a moment, someone brought the gurney, and they lifted the man gingerly onto it, wheeling him to the ambulance to lead him in. She ran beside it, still half-dazed.

"Ma'am," one of the paramedics said, addressing her, breaking her out of her semi-trance. "You can't ride unless you're immediate family."

"Y-yeah…" she mumbled. "He…he's my…brother."

They let her in, much to her surprise, and she sat beside the man, holding his hand, as they put tubes into his hand to set up an IV drip, and check his vitals, and whatever the hell paramedics do, she didn't know. She hated needles. She swallowed, looking away, feeling panic rise in her throat. But the man didn't stir. He slept, peacefully, all the way to the hospital.

They wheeled him immediately into the Emergency, and she ran beside the gurney as people started yelling questions.

"What do we have?"

"Vehicular accident. Truck."

"Vitals?"

There were some numbers thrown back and forth, and a doctor (she guessed he was a doctor anyway, with his green scrubs) ordered for something CC and milligrams or something. And then they asked for his name.

"Do we know?" someone asked.

"Ma…tthew…" came a choked, hushed response, and she looked down to see the man's bleary eyes half-open.

"Matthew…Williams…"

The girl looked into the man's eyes, and he smiled, weakly, just for her. Her heart gave a funny flutter, and she willed it to be still.

After that, it was a blur of stuff. The attendants refused her to go any farther, though she protested strongly. She was forced back to the waiting room, strangely empty of anyone at that point, and was midway through some lie about him being her brother when the doors hissed open with a rush of wind, and in barrelled a young man, his hair tousled about, his face flushed, his dark-rimmed glasses askew. He ran right up to the nurse and brashly demanded, "Where's my brother? Where's Matthew? I want to see him, _now_."

The nurse protested that no one was allowed past this point, but the man was insistent. As he argued loudly, in walked two more people, and a familiar white bear. One of the men was on the shorter side, with a messy crop of sandy-blond hair, and piercing green eyes that glittered from under comically bushy brows. The other was on the taller side, with long silky hair and a suave sense about him. She backed up a few steps to give the three men room.

"Damnit, I don't have time for this—!"

"Oh shut up, Alfred," the shorter man chided, his voice thickly accented with authentic British. Not that rancid crap Hollywood spewed. Thick, harsh British that rubbed your ears raw, and you loved every second of it. "The world doesn't revolve around you, no matter how much you want it too."

"But—!" Alfred protested, straightening his glasses in an almost comical manor.

"No buts!" the Brit blasted back angrily.

"_Oui_, _oui_," the tall blond added in silky French. She felt like crying. It was _sooooooo_ much better than that Quebecois crap she had to learn in school for eight years. Fuck French as a second language; it was downright degrading to learn the same stale crap for eight years, and it wasn't even proper French, oh no! It was a blasphemy of a language, a bastard child of Metis and Latin and First Nations, and Gods only knew what else. She loathed it with the fiery passion of a million suns. She suffered through until grade nine when it was no longer mandatory, and dropped it like a hot potato. Math was hard enough without French dragging her GPA down.

Anyway, yeah. The French guy and the Brit, and this guy named Alfred. They'd been arguing for a while, and finally someone came to talk to them. She told them to be patient, and wait, and so the Brit and the Frenchman sat down, but Alfred paced the waiting room, agitatedly yanking on his gloved hands. She studied him as she waited.

He was handsome, that was obvious. (Man, what _was_ it with sexy guys suddenly popping up all over the place as soon as she was comfortably in a long-term relationship? It had to be Fate being cruel to her again, like She always was.) The man had azure eyes that mirrored a perfect, cloudless sky, and a much brighter shade of blond than either Matthew or the Brit, closer to that Frenchman there. Yeah. Mustard blond, nice and bright.

He was dressed oddly, she noted, although she admitted it looked _damn_ good on him. A khaki suit, blue tie, white shirt, covered with a bomber jacket she couldn't help but drool a little over. Brown leather, _real_ leather, like the leather jacket her Dad wore on the Harley. It had a faux fur collar (She _hoped_ it was faux, because it was too surreal to be real), and a bright, bold, white '50' on the back. A small plane emblem was on the left sleeve.

The shoes were nice, polished and professional. She watched them clack on the polish tiles of the waiting room floor for a while, until she noticed the man furiously texting, and making phone calls, blatantly ignoring the "PLEASE TURN ALL CELL PHONES AND PDAs OFF WHILE IN THE HOSPITAL THANK YOU" sign on the wall, clearly visible upon walking in.

_He's a typical American_, she thought, tiredly. _No respect for anyone or anything but himself. What an ass._

She had no reason to assume he was American, he just…_smelled_ like one. She couldn't explain it. And it became even more apparent when he plopped down beside her for a few minutes while tapping out an extremely long text message. He smelled like greasy McDonald's food and Starbuck's Lattes; like salt spray and asphalt; like summer winds and dingy winters; like dusty desert and damp woods. The surrealness of it made her inch back a smidge.

He didn't just smell like an American. He smelled like _America_.

She focused on the others, trying hard not to stare. The Brit wasn't unattractive to look at, but the brows were absurd. Like fuzzy caterpillars, clinging to his face. She wanted to touch them, and it made her finger twitch involuntarily.

He was dressed lazily, in a smart sweater vest and grey-blue shirt, matched perfectly with cream slacks and polished black shoes. He _screamed_ British. It was in his proper posture, in his cold disinterest in his surroundings, and his occasional scathing glances at Alfred beside her.

He was like Sean Connery, but young. Before James Bond made him even sexier than he already was. He was the perfect essence of British awesome.

The Frenchman was…well…definitely French. The hair was way too silky to be anything but professionally taken care of, his clothes too rich and chic to be off the rack. He was sexy in a sort-of rugged way with his stubble, and it made her feel a slight bit…uncomfortable. She wasn't turned on, per say, but it was definitely oddly sexy, and it disturbed her. His whole presence seemed soaked in that whole "I'm-sexy-and-French, let's-have-sex-on-the-beach" persona. Really disturbing.

The man next to her, Alfred, seemed to give her a small look over, and an approving wink, and she suddenly felt betrayed by her warming cheeks. And it must have tipped off the Brit, because he looked none too pleased about it. In fact, he stood up with a huff, and marched over to Alfred with his face turning the colour of brandy.

"What the bloody hell was that, Alfred?"

Alfred blinked. "An innocent look. What? I'm not allowed to look at sexy girls every now and then, Arthur?"

_Arthur…his name's Arthur, huh? Kind of sexy, just like the old Arthurian leg—Wait, back up. Sexy? __**Her**__? That…wasn't possible. She was the opposite of sexy. She was __**un**__-sexy. What with her hair that never behaved, and her glasses that made her look geeker than she already was, and her lanky body shape that made her self-conscious…_

Her attention shifted to the conversation at hand, however, as Alfred stood up to look Arthur in the face.

"You're way too jealous!"

The Brit sputtered. "Jealous? _ME_?! _I beg your pardon_!"

Alfred pouted. "I take a sidelong glance at a girl, and you freak out. Just like right now. Face it, Iggy, you're jealous." He poked the Brit's nose to emphasise the point.

_**Iggy**__? Okay, that was just absurdly cute._

The Brit was sputtering by that point, and Alfred coyly smiled at him, and she read the flash in his eyes she'd seen in men before…that lusty look of predatory dominance.

_Whoa_. Back it up a sec. She was reading _way_ too much into that.

The Frenchman sighed and flicked some hair from his face. "Another lover's quarrel. _Ce qui est un fait reste un fait_."

"Shut _up_, Francis!" the two men blasted in unison.

The girl shifted nervously now. She didn't want to be involved in this. It was bad enough she'd gotten someone hit by a truck—

_Shit. Right. That was why she was here again._

Blessedly, it was that moment when the woman from before walked up to the men. She seemed to overlook the girl, who was grateful for this, and spoke to the three men directly. (The one they called Francis had rose to his feet as she came out, and met her as she approached the two men already standing.)

"Matthew's fine, Alfred. He'll be able to walk out of here in the morning."

"Shit, that's great," Alfred sighed, relived. The other two also gave comforted sighs. "What happened, exactly? There's only so much that a talking bear can tell you, you know."

The bear _talked_?

It was only then she noticed it at her feet. It was looking up at her, his black, glassy eyes focused on her, and she smiled, nervously at it. She felt an urge to pet it, and it made no attempt to back away, and she soon found herself stroking the silkiness of its thick coat, now coming in thicker to prepare for winter.

"You must be a Kermode Bear," the girl wispered to it as she stroked it lovingly. The bear made a sound akin to a purr as she scratched it under the chin.

"Hit by a _**truck**_?!" Alfred's voice, loud normally, was deafening as he blasted the statement in disbelief. The girl's head snapped up again.

The nurse (if that's what she was) seemed startled as well, and Arthur slapped Alfred on the shoulder hard, dissaprovingly. It seemed almost fatherly in a way, like a Dad slapping his son for swearing. Alfred looked at Arthur with a "What?" and Arthur simply rolled his eyes.

"He's fine, really," the nurse assured Alfred. "If he was anyone else, it would have killed him, but…I dunno. You guys are different. Knowing him, he'll be walking around like nothing is wrong in no time at all."

_Different…?_ The statement seemed odd to the girl, and things started to feel downright bizzar. Butterflies were dancing about in her gut.

"Why was he hit by a truck?" Francis asked, his eyebrows scrunched together in worry.

The nurse suddenly realized the girl sitting behind the group, calmly stroking the bear in an attempt to be inconspituous. Everyone turned to look at her, and she felt four pairs of eyes drilling holes into her. She couldn't help but break into a cold sweat.

"Ask her," the nurse said. "She came in with him."

The girl chanced a glance, but Alfred's piercing gaze caught her before she could look away. _Crap!_ She forced a smile as best she could, given her current state of terror.

Arthur strode swiftly over to her, and sat down beside her. Again came that overwhelming sensation; a smell that was nothing and everything at once. Smog and rain; fish and chips and beer; tea and biscuits; hibiscus and damp grass. She almost reeled at the overpoweringness of it.

"Young lady," he said to her in a calm voice. "What exactly happened?"

The girl stammered for a moment before the tears started. They were unintentional, but she was so overwhelmed by everything, and she couldn't hold it back anymore. Sobbing hysterically, she voiced the only thing that came to her mind at that moment.

"It's all my fault! It's all my fault!"

There was a pair of comforting arms around her now, strong and subtle at the same time. The smell of cigarette smoke and wine; of roses and rain; of cloying dust and wet paint; of fresh bread and sweet desserts; of musk and perfume. She sobbed uncontrollably.

"_Ma jolie petite demoiselle_," Francis cooed. "This is not your fault. Tell us everything."

And so she did. "I…I was walking…I was late, and in a hurry. I was headed for the Skytrain, and…and we…we bumped into each other. I stumbled into the road. And he…he…" she hiccuped suddenly. "He grabbed me. It all happened so fast, but…if I hadn't…he was just…"

The eyes on her were gentle, and she felt a hand rubbing her back soothingly. She was completely taken aback. These men…they didn't know her. And yet, here they were, comforting her, telling her that this was not her fault, and that this was what Matthew did.

"He's like that," Alfred told her. "Always helping people. It's in his nature."

The girl laughed bitterly. "Yeah, mine too. I guess that's what I get, for being Canadian."

The three men smiled at her words, as if a secret joke had been silently passed between them.

The stumble behind them caused them all to look up. Matthew was leaning on the front counter, looking pained, but mostly alright. The girl noted with horrified facination that most of the man's bruising and cuts were gone, as if healed by some form of _magic_.

"Matthew!" The cry escaped from three sets of lips at once. And the man looked shocked at first, and then overjoyed as they three men rushed to him to hug him tightly. The bear joined them, rubbing against Matthew's legs lovingly.

"I can't breathe," came a muffled complaint, and the three men backed off, appologing profusely. Matthew straightened his clothes, and nodded to the nurse.

"Thank you, Kathy," Matthew said, smiling at the 'nurse' (Which the girl suspected more and more wasn't really a nurse at all) before turning to the others with a soft sigh of relief. "Well, the good news is that I got over the Swine Flu just a few days ago, and they tell me it probably won't re-surface." His smile is bright. "I'm a little sad to see the ambulance workers still on-strike, but at least they aren't failing their jobs. That's a relief."

"This city is no place to take a spill," Alfred warned. "You should at least do it closer to Ottawa. "Easier to clean up, you know." He chuckled lightly.

"I know," Matthew said. "But I can't depend on everyone at Parlament _all_ the time, now, can I? I was worried about the people here, especially since it's bound to be a cold winter this year. There are so many people without a place to stay…I don't want them to freeze." His tone grows soft at this, and he shifts his gaze to the floor for a moment before lifting it up again.

And then his eyes fell on her, and she froze, trying to swallow, but finding it impossible. His gaze is soft but incredibly strong, and she cannot tear away. He comes closer to her, his footsteps soft, as if he treds through snow instead of over hard tile floors. He takes her hands in his gloved ones, and urges her to her feet. With a smile, he looks her over, patting her cheek with a tender touch.

"You are fine, I see. That makes me glad. I would hate to see someone die…because of my carelessness."

The girl finds the tears coming back now, and he gathers her into a hug. And it hits her, that same type of smell: Damp wood and crisp snow; smoky campfire smoke and drying grass; swaying grain and salty brine. She breathes deep, knowing exactly what the smells are, and feels his hands on her cheeks now. He's taken his gloves off, stuffing them in his pockets, quite similar to what she did when it was too warm to wear her leather gloves. His hands are cold like wintry chill, but warm at the same time, like sun-kissed summers back home in the interior. And as she stares into his eyes, a slow realization dawns on her.

"Who…_what_…are you?"

The man smiles, his eyes sparkling like the lake back home on a clear day in June. Familiar and yet so strange to her, his whole presence. And then he speaks in his quiet, beautiful, hushed voice.

"I'm Canada."

She tries not to cry. It _isn't_ true, it _can't_ be true. This wasn't _real_. Countries don't walk around as people. _It didn't happen_.

But she couldn't deny what she knew to be real. His very presence was her home and native land, so beautiful and proud, so strong and graceful. She teared up yet again, choking on her own emotion.

"How…?"

Matthew—no, Canada—looked at her with the softest of smiles. "We are unique; we walk amongst the mortals, but we are not. We live until our bodies fade, either becoming new countries, or fading entirely from existence." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "We feel pain, take wounds from weapons like anyone else, but those wounds fade quickly. Our sickness, our diseases are the ones that devastate a nation: plague, drought, economic crisis…" He paused, slowly forming the words he wanted to say. "The very existence of our people runs through us; we feel their pain, their joy, their sadness and sorrow, their regret. We hear their voices; see the many wonderful things they see; dream their dreams and make them our own. Because we are all of them. All of them at once." He puts a hand on his chest. "If even one person clings to hope, we cannot fade." He smiles at her.

"This…this is ludicrous…" She can't believe the words are slipping from her lips. She shakes her head slowly. "This is…"

"You were born in a small town, in the heart of British Columbia," he whispers to her.

"Stop…"

"You grew up, surrounded by pain and anger. You felt alone, betrayed by everyone."

"Please, don't—"

"But you are beautiful, both in body and soul, and you love everything with such passion, it always comes back to you." He smiles at her. "The truck was my fault. And I cannot allow even one of my people to die because of my recklessness." He swallows. "I would never forgive myself."

She breaks down, hugging the boy with all her might. "Oh Canada…" she sobs.

He hugs her tight to him, not using his whole strength, because it was obvious he could snap her like a twig, but it's a strong grip, and she feels safe in it. They stand there, completely ignoring the world, just focusing on each other. His heartbeat is almost musical to her, and she feels lulled and sleepy just listening to it.

"The others…are they…?"

"Yes," he whispers to her. "America and Britain and France all came for me." He is happy, and she smiles despite herself.

"Matthew…no, Canada…will you…will I…?"

Matthew pats her head softly. "I am with you, no matter where you roam. As for us," he lifts her chin to look into her eyes. "You are special. There are few like you who can see past the veils, and perceive the truth behind what we really are." He chuckled. "I have no doubt…we will meet again."

He kisses her forehead then, and the pulse through his lips is like the beat of 30,000,000 hearts, beating in rhythmic time. The sensation overwhelms her, and she feels her world spin a little.

"I won't…forget…" she whispers as she slips into unconsciousness.

---

How she arrived back at her Great Aunt's place in Delta was beyond her. But as she sat up in bed, gripping the twisted covers in her hand, she couldn't help but feel it was too real to be a dream. The scents she had smelled lingered in her memory, strong and bold, not easily forgotten. She smiles even as she tears up, hugging her knees as she remembers the sweet smell of her country as he held her protectively. Even when things were bad, her country was strong. Unwavering, never faltering, always following the course that he thought was right.

She cried until she had nothing left to cry.

---

She sat under the pine trees near her home weeks later, taking in the heavy smell with a light, airy sigh. She had chosen this spot to practice her breathing techniques in order to relax, like her therapists had told her to, and she could feel it working. This was much better than any pill or psychiatric help they could give her.

She was what they called bipolar; completely and utterly at the mercy of violent mood swings and roller coaster-like frames of mind. Left untreated for too long, and she became unstable, even bordering on psychotic. She had near invisible scars from many attempts to turn that aggression on herself.

The healthcare system did what it could for her, but she was labelled clinically insane, and basically forced to become sedated to keep her 'normal'. But pills and the like made her tired, always tired. She had no ambition, no drive. Nothing made sense to her, and sometimes she would cry in frustration.

She hadn't bothered telling anyone about what happened in Vancouver. She would take that secret to her grave. Not only would she betray the trust her country had put on her, but it would probably mean a shwack more pills on top of what she already took, a thought that made her swallow in disgust.

But this was perfect. No doctors or psychiatrists hanging over her, no annoying white noise of a city slowly going insane. Just her and nature.

The wind caressed her cheek gently as she sat there, absorbing the stillness that was the grove of pine trees near her home, in the city she was born in, grew up in, loved even when she hated it, because she could never escape it.

She felt her trance slowly become sleep, and she didn't fight it, letting herself drift towards a slumber she hadn't had in months.

And then, softly, she heard a laugh. A familiar, hushed laugh, and her eyes flew open. But all she saw was the city around her, and the crows on her roof, cawing at her with rude curiosity.

But she smiled. Even if the world was going crazy, she at least knew she was sane. For now.

She leaned back against the tree, and contemplated pancakes for breakfast the next morning. With lots of maple syrup.


	2. Culture Shock

Author's Notes: I was very pleased to recieve so many possitive reviews for this story! I will never be able to re-capture the intensity of which I wrote the first chapter, but I hope I'll be able to impress you all nonetheless. For simplicities sake, I intend to keep the number of OCs low, and focus more on the Nations interactions. Since they have established a small one with our girl here, it's best to keep it that way. I encourage others to write stories along this vein, and let me know about them! I think you could all do a much better job at it than I.

*Cough* E-hem. Anyway...I have many ideas for this fic, so don't think it's straight-laced. It's not. I'm anything but predictable. I don't aim to disrespect anyone, so if you notice an error, please point it out to me, and I'll immediately correct it. As my boyfriend points out, there are regions of the States that know of A&W, but most of those are near the Great Lakes, so I consiter that to be kind of natural. Go further south, and you get funny looks.

I never really proof-read these very closely, since they usually take anywhere between two to three hours to write, no pauses or breaks. If I have to think for too long about how to write something, I know I'm forcing it, and I'll stop. Just so you know.

---

Three weeks and two days after the incident in Vancouver, the girl was bathing in her home, still slightly dopey with sleep. She wasn't a morning person, and this wasn't really morning anymore. It was twelve-thirty in the afternoon, but that was still earlier than she'd like. She sighed as she stretched out in her bath as best she could, enjoying the salt-laced water for all it was worth.

Which was a _lot_, because this was some expensive bath salt.

She couldn't get over the incident. She also couldn't shake the people she'd met. Or rather, the Nations. She sighed deeply. Maybe this was just another psychotic episode, like all the other weird stuff.

Like the fairies from the garden, and the elves from the backwoods, and the leprechaun that had tried to eat her leg.

She shuttered. The leprechaun thing _still_ scared her. Her mother had said it was just scratches from playing in the woods again, but she knew better.

She finished washing her hair out, and then put the conditioner in. Her mind wandered over the day in Vancouver again, despite her attempts not to.

They were all very fine looking men—err, _Nations_. Each unique and perfect embodiments of their homeland. France's showy clothes and delicate features; England's bland, but handsome, style and preposterous eyebrows; America's sexy charm despite his horrendous personality…

And then Canada…

She went deep red, despite the fact her bathwater was now almost cold. She felt rather dirty at this point, because no matter how hard she tried, _her country turned her on_.

Her _country_.

She grabbed her loofah angrily, and soaked it in the water, trying to drown her feelings as well as the bright pink scrubby puff. Such things were _sick_ and _wrong_; she couldn't _possibly_ allow herself to get a lady boner over her country.

She squeezed the water out of the loofah, and clicked open her lime-and-coconut body wash. Squeezing some into the hot pink puffball, she tried to think of other things. Like cats. And work. And what she could do to keep from going even further into insanity.

Working the loofah, she channelled her aggression into the scrubby. She _hated_ pink, with a passion. She didn't care how mean she got with the damn thing because the damn thing had been part of another gift entirely, and loofahs were a dime a dozen. But as she scrubbed at her body, she felt her tension start to melt away.

At least, until a tiny noise made her tense up again. It almost sounded like someone was in the tiny bathroom with her. She lifted her head carefully, making sure not to bang it on the low slant of the roof over her bathtub (caused by the fact it was under the back stairs of the house, and making showering impossible) to try to catch a better glimpse of the intruder. Without her glasses, however, most of what was father than arms length away was a hazy blur.

However she couldn't let fear run her, so she yanked back the shower curtain, hoping it was all in her imagination, or that she was just hearing noises from upstairs, just like always.

Instead, she came face-to-face with the blond American from before.

_America_.

She froze. _The entire United States of America was watching her bathe_.

It wasn't until America smiled widely at her, before giving a wolf whistle, that she screamed. Loud. She had a damn good set of lungs, and she knew how to use them.

"G-get out! GET OUT!!" She threw everything within reach at him, and he retreated out of the bathroom, laughing hysterically, like this was all some big joke to him or something. But she was not laughing. This was not a joke, not to her. Her face was red as a beet, and tears were starting to gather in her eyes as she helplessly clutched at her soapy, naked body, sobbing with rage and embarrassment.

"You fucking _letch_! What the _hell_ gives you the right?!"

America managed to stop laughing, wiping away tiny tears of mirth. He turned his head away from her, but he was still addressing her in that arrogant yet irresistibly sexy tone.

"You shouldn't be ashamed of that, you know. Some girls would kill to have hips like that. You're like a what? Size six? Somewhere in there?"

The girl sputtered. _Nailed it_. "F-fuck you! You're sick! And stop patronizing me! I have a _fat ass_, and I _know_ it!"

America sighed, rolling his eyes. "What _is_ it with girls and self-image these days? It's not like _I'm_ the one who's flooding their media with anorexic teenagers and supermodels. And yet _I'm_ the one who gets all the blame." He sighed. "Honestly, I _like_ a girl with a little meat on her bones."

The girl was three shades of livid now. "Yeah, whatever. My boobs aren't the right size for me, my legs are way too long, and—Wait, _why the hell am I talking to you about this_?! _**You're**_ the voyeur here!!"

America chuckled. "Sorry 'bout that. I notice you don't lock your door, and I heard something in here. Didn't mean to startle you."

"Sure, sure…" the girl muttered, sinking into her bathwater to rinse off. "And I've got some land in the middle of a swamp to sell ya."

"Finish your bath," America said casually. "I'll be out here, raiding your stuff." She could almost _hear_ the wicked grin on his face.

She rinsed as fast as she could. Like _hell_ he was going through her stuff.

But when she dashed out with her towel hurriedly wrapped around her, she was shocked to see him casually pawing through her anime and music collection. She stared in shock.

"Got some decent stuff," he noted. "Oh hey! Nickleback! They're an _awesome_ American band!"

She was about to correct him when he started going through her doujins. She jolted, and snatched his hand away.

"Don't. Touch those. _Ever_."

America chuckled. "Well so_rry_!" He seemed amused, despite her rudeness.

She snatched up her work clothes from off her storage tub/footrest, and stalked back to the bathroom to change. "So, then. You're America, right?"

"One and only," he replied proudly.

"Do you have a name then?"

"Sure. Alfred F. Jones."

She paused. "What does the 'F' stand for?"

He chuckled. "That's G-14 classified."

She frowned. He was being a sass, and she hated it. But he _was_ a World Superpower, so she reasoned it was better not to push it.

"May I ask a personal question, Alfred F. Jones?" she asked as she walked out of the bathroom, now dressed, and running a brush through her wet hair.

"Shoot."

"Why are you here?" She drew the question out, making sure she was being _perfectly_ clear. She trained her hazel eyes on him, awaiting his answer.

He looked back into her gaze with his own Montana Blue one. "Simple. I got a little bored, decided to play hooky, and came to hang out with you."

"Why _me_?" Now she was _really_ confused.

Alfred chuckled again, his face lighting up brighter and brighter. "Because…I think you're interesting."

"_Interesting_?" she was floored and knew she was gaping, but this…this seemed ridiculous. "Don't you have a Middle Eastern country to squeeze oil and terrorist out of or something?"

Alfred seemed hurt by this comment, and she immediately regretted it. His hurt face was like someone had run over his puppy. Repeatedly. With a logging truck.

"I'm sorry." Her words were thick, and came out awkwardly, but his face eased at them. She sat down on the bed with a deep, heavy sigh. "It's just…I've been trying to put Vancouver behind me, and now…" She helplessly lifted her arms and let them drop noisily into her lap again.

Alfred smiled his hundred-watt grin, stood up off the floor in front of her DVD case, and plopped down next to her on the bed. Not on the couch across from her, which was closer. No, on the _bed_. Next to _her_.

She was red again. She didn't need a mirror to tell her that.

Alfred put a strong arm around her shoulders. "You know, every time a human finds out about us, they either die horribly, or forget all about it within a few hours." He chuckled suddenly. "Or I work for them."

"Work for them?" Confusion in her voice.

"The President," he explained. "And all of the staff that work directly with him. They all know: know about me, know about us." He smirked, pinching her cheek. "_You_, on the other hand, are normal as can be, and yet…" He let the words linger. "And yet you still remember. And you aren't dead. Yet."

She frowned. That last part sounded…ominous. She decided to change topics.

"So, then, you work for the President? Not the other way around?"

"Bingo." Alfred looked proud. "Nations support their leaders. Because, in reality, they are leading us, not the other way around. We are never more important than them." He swung his long legs out, hitting her storage bucket with his sneaker. "And sometimes, if I'm good, I get to use Air Force One." He grinned wickedly again.

She rolled her eyes. _Men and their toys_.

"I think," Alfred said suddenly, leaping to his feet. "We should go for lunch."

She hesitated. "I'm broke though…" she muttered, unable to voice her real thoughts. _Why the hell does the United States of America want to have lunch with _me_? And why hasn't he apologized for peeking at me yet?!_

It was then the door opened, and a familiar face stepped in. The girl's heart skipped a beat.

Matthew Williams. Also known as Canada.

"I thought I'd find you here," he scolded Alfred with his quiet voice. "Arthur told you we're to stay away from her."

Alfred pouted. "Iggy can't tell me what to do, Mattie. He's all hot air anyway."

Matthew gave him a look, and the bear in his arms looked up at his owner, as if contemplating whether this was the same person or not.

"Let's all have lunch." Alfred seemed to be able to switch brain processes faster than a Porsche could shift. He seemed bent and determined to make everyone ignore the real problem here, and go for lunch instead.

Matthew sighed. "Fine. But only if you promise to talk to Arthur about this. I'm not getting into trouble because of you again."

"Scout's honour," Alfred said, holding one hand over his heart, and the other palm forward. And when he did it, it seemed completely sincere.

"Fine. Where do we all eat?"

They both looked at the girl, who froze up. "Don't look at me," she squeaked finally. "I'm broke."

"I'll pay," Matthew said abruptly. "As a way of repaying you for all the grief Alfred has instilled on you."

Alfred shot him a look, but Matthew seemed to ignore it.

"And to apologize for not knocking first," Matthew continued, looking sheepish.

The girl smiled. She had to stop herself from drooling on her carpet. The Nation was just _so cute_ when he looked shy like that.

_No, no bad. No dirty thoughts. Bad._

Alfred spoke again, breaking the silence. "I want McDonald's."

Matthew made a face. "Couldn't we…go somewhere else?"

"Like where?" Alfred seemed reluctant to go anywhere other than his favourite fast food restaurant.

"Umm…" the girl's voice seemed tiny all of a sudden. "The McDonald's here is up on the highway, and it's really far to walk. I'd suggest A&W, if you want fast food. It's closer, and has two locations, both of which are nearer than McDonald's."

There was silence, and for a long, agonizing moment, she thought she had put her foot in her mouth. But then, Alfred spoke.

"What's A&W?"

She let out her breath, all at once. Matthew seemed amused.

"It's a burger chain," Matthew explained. "A _Canadian_ one."

"Oh." Alfred paused. "Well, I dunno…"

"At least A&W uses _real meat_ in it's burgers, unlike that slophole McDonald's." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Alfred glared. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

She swallowed. "Don't you know? McDonald's uses a mixture of 60% tofu, and 40% animal biproducts in its 'all-beef' patties. Then the patties are grilled in trans fats, and because of the sponge-like nature of the tofu, the patty becomes _soaked_ in the dangerous fat. Furthermore, the French fries contain _pheromones_, a chemical associated with stimulating pleasure. The fries are grilled in that same trans fat the patties are cooked with, and the heat excited the pheromones, causing them to entice the eater into liking them. However, once cold, the pheromone dies, and the fries are no longer appetizing. Also, because the friers are set too low, the oil isn't hot enough to cook the fries properly, and they _also_ soak up the trans fat, becoming _another_ heart-clogging mess. Throw in the fact that the 'ice cream' there is actually tofu, and I think you'll see why I'm not overly enthused to eat there." She crossed her arms after the tirade.

Alfred swallowed at all of this, looking slightly pale. "Y-you're joking, right?"

She shook her head 'no', completely serious.

Alfred looked at Matthew. "Umm, I suppose we could try your place…"

Matthew smiled a little. "The root beer there is amazing."

"Is it?" Alfred brightened a little. The girl thought they might very well be able to persuade Alfred to like a Canadian burger joint after all.

---

The walk to the A&W was long, not because of the wind (which was fierce today for some reason), but because of Alfred's constant "Okay, I thought about it, let's go somewhere else," and then Matthew and the girl would have to drag Alfred back.

The mall store was small, and the girl didn't feel like eating there, so she dragged them a bit farther along until they came to the Y: an intersection that was the focal point into the city. The Y was so named because, despite it was cross-shaped, every corner had a turn, like a Y.

The girl thought it was the absolute stupidest name ever.

Alfred nearly walked out in front of a car, and Matthew yanked him back in time to hear the driver shout, "Retard!" as they zoomed past.

"Sorry!" Matthew called.

"World's friendliest people my ass," Alfred bitched.

"World's worst drivers," the girl muttered.

The three walked across the crosswalks to the A&W that was situated just off the highway, and Alfred wrinkled his nose up in disgust.

"Brown and orange? What kind of god-awful colour scheme is _that_?"

"Better than the blue and yellow," she said pointedly. "Remember that, Matthew?"

Matthew shuttered. "Yes, sadly."

"Nothing like yellow-and-blue check to make you feel gut-wrenchingly nauseous," the girl grumbled out. Alfred grinned.

The inside was rather quiet, surprisingly. Alfred took a moment to drink it all in, and decide what he thought of it all.

"It's okay," he said after a moment of deliberation. "Kind of 'carhop quaint', you know?"

"Yeah," the girl admitted. "This place really loves the carhop feel. There's an annual 'Cruisin' the Dub' which basically amounts to a huge car show of old classic cars and bikes. My dad goes to that."

"Weird," Alfred said, but his tone indicated he didn't hate it. She smiled a little, despite herself.

The line was short, and Alfred's eyes flicked over the menu as he deliberated, until the cashier closest to them gave them a warm smile, and a, "May I help you?"

"Yeah," Alfred told her, leaning onto the counter, and flashing a charming grin. "Got anything like a Double Pounder?"

Matthew sighed, putting his face in his hand. Alfred never seemed to learn.

The girl smiled, as if this was common to her. "We have a Double Teen. There's also the Grandpa Burger, if you really like your meat."

Alfred's eyes widened. "Wait, tell me what's in those."

The girl nodded. "The Grandpa Burger has three patties, sliced onions, mustard, ketchup and mayonnaise. The Double Teen has two patties, bacon, cheddar cheese, diced onions, mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise, lettuce and a tomato slice. You can get bacon and cheese on your Grandpa burger for a little extra."

Alfred tried not to drool on the counter, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Can I get that Double Teen, but with an extra patty? Can I do that?"

"Sure!" the cashier responded cheerfully, punching in the order. "Is this to stay or to go?"

"Stay."

"Would you like to make it a combo?"

"Fries and a root beer," Alfred said automatically. Then he grinned, winking. "I heard the root beer is _awesome_."

"Very," the girl told him.

Alfred looked happy with himself until the cashier asked, "Anything else? An apple turnover for dessert?"

Alfred's eyes flashed at 'apple turnover'. The man was practically associated with apple pie, so the idea of having something like that, only smaller and more carry-convenient seemed alluring.

"Yeah, for sure."

The cashier tallied it up, and Alfred fished out his wallet. Then he got sheepish.

"Is American okay…? It's all I have…"

Matthew gave an irritated sigh. "_I'll_ get this one. You owe me though."

The girl knew the cause of Matthew's irritation. American money, although accepted in Canada, was discouraged due to the complicated calculations dealing with exchange rate. Most businesses either treated the money like Canadian, or refused it flat-out. Matthew didn't want to cause the cashier any headaches.

"Come on," Matthew waved her over, smiling. "I've got it, trust me."

She walked shyly over as Matthew told the cashier his order in his quiet voice.

"Double Mozza, please. Yes, a combo, of course. Root beer, and a…let's see…a poutine, yes." He smiled widely. "And an apple turnover."

Matthew looked at the girl again. "And you?"

She blushed. "Double Mozza…" She couldn't believe he liked the same burger she did. "Root beer as well. But…with onion rings, please."

"Ooh," Alfred mumbled. "Never thought of _that_."

"Too late now," Matthew warned.

The cashier tallied it up as another worker got their drinks ready. Alfred gasped as the worker pulled three tall glass mugs from a cooler by the register, watching them ice over slightly as they hit the warmer air.

"That's…neat…" Alfred stuttered.

Matthew grinned. "It makes the taste amazing."

"I never thought of that," Alfred murmured, amazed still. "It's so ingenious…"

Matthew paid the bill quickly, and the three mugs of root beer were passed to them on a tray. Everyone simply took the mugs off, and carried them as they hunted out a table with enough seats for all of them. Alfred settled in quickly.

"Okay, I admit, it's really nice here," he said finally. "The service is good, and the menu looks…_awesome_."

"It is," Matthew said proudly, petting the sleepy bear at his feet. "After all, this business started as a roadside burger stand."

Alfred took a sip of his root beer, and moaned loudly, causing the others to flinch.

"_OOOOOHHHHH~! WOW~!_"

Matthew's face got red. "K-keep it down! Th-that noise is really not appropriate here!"

"But it's, like, liquid orgasm!" Alfred tried to explain, and it only made the girl cringe a little. "It's fucking _amazing_, Mattie!"

"I know," Matthew replied, sipping his own root beer calmly. "I've had it before."

"The glass…" Alfred was murmuring to himself now. "The cold glass keeps the pop cold…so there's no need for ice…less dilution…" His eyes sparkled. "_Fucking genius_."

Matthew sighed. He was obviously glad Alfred thought the ideas were inventive, but he seemed distressed that Alfred would be so _new_ to the ideas.

He also seemed new to the idea of a cashier bringing their food to them. She smiled as she set the tray down between them all, and walked off to clean the nearby tables that were now empty of patrons.

"They _bring you_ the food?"

"If it takes a bit to prepare, yeah." The girl shrugged, nonchalantly. "The onion rings and the poutine held it up a bit, so they brought it to us when they were finished."

"_Fuck_…that's definitely service." Alfred grinned.

The girl pulled an onion ring out of the paper bag they were in. The ring was still warm, the crispy dough flecked with seasoning salt, and crumbling away from the onion. She knew that was a good sign. She chomped down into the onion ring with a happy sigh.

Alfred bit into a French fry, eliciting another happy moan. "Holy _fuck_! These are _awesome_!"

Matthew said nothing this time, but his lips were a tight line. Withheld laughter, perhaps?

Alfred chomped down on his fries with gluttonous speed. The girl cringed, but said nothing. His manors were appalling, but that didn't surprise her. What fascinated her, however, were his eating habits.

Everyone has them, and she liked to see what other peoples' were, so she could get an idea of the person she was watching. Alfred, for example, ate all of his fries first before even contemplating reaching for his burger. He also took great, large gulps of his root beer to wash his food down. She watched him eat in fascination. _He decimated the small stuff before hitting the main target with all of his force_.

"Aww, they use cheese curds instead of real cheese."

"Yeah, kind of depressing, really," the girl said with sympathy. "A true poutine is made with real meat gravy, liberally covering hand-made fries covered, no smothered in real cheese. Then bakes in the oven. Absolute perfection."

Matthew nodded, his eyes bright. He understood.

"There's a restaurant I frequent with friends in town who makes it that way," she explained. "I'll have to show you sometime."

"I'd like that," Matthew told her, and her stomach fluttered at the smile.

Matthew, unlike his twin brother, took small sips of his root beer, and poked calmly at his poutine, taking the time to coat all the fries with cheese and gravy. He then ate it a little at a time; small bites, relishing the taste. He too ate his side completely before touching his burger, which was surprising. She thought that he would want to split the side amongst the main meal. Hmm, she supposed she misjudged him.

"Hey, this bag is odd," Alfred pointed out.

"Yes, it's tinfoil." Matthew made the observation as if that was nothing new. "They make them that way to keep the heat in longer, thus keeping the burgers fresher for longer. It was a trick they came up with back in the carhop era."

"_Awesome_," Alfred muttered, ecstatically.

The bags were similar, but different as well. The logos for each of the burgers decorated the bags, but the flap at the top was folded over backwards to show it was a 'Double' of that particular burger. On the bottom of Alfred's bag was a black smudge of letters: 'Xtra pat'.

"What's this?" Alfred asked.

"Grease pencil," the girl explained. "They mark the bags to differentiate between special orders. So, if someone, like me, ever wanted no onions, they would put 'No o' on the bag. Simple." She shrugged.

Alfred contemplated this. "It's so odd, and yet…so cool as well." He opened his bag to retrieve his burger, and smiled hungrily. "Looks good!"

The girl noted her own eating habits were different yet again. She always started with the main meal, enjoying the burger with gusto, before digging into her side. Unless the side was onion rings, in which case she polished those off first. She loved them. She would wash down any larger bites with root beer, but try to keep her sips the same size, to try to extend the pop until the very end of the meal. She realized how anal she was, and frowned.

"_OHHHHHHH FFFFF~!_" Alfred did it again. "_HOLY SHIT THAT'S GOOD!_"

People looked, but most seemed to pass it off indifferently. The most he got were odd looks, which was a relief.

"This…is _the best_ burger…I've ever had." He seemed moved to tears, and she felt a spot of worry that a _burger_ would bring a Nation to tears.

Matthew seemed to find this normal. "Told you so."

Alfred demolished his burger, and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, sighing in satisfaction. "Damn, that was good."

And then he eyed up her onion rings.

At first, she frowned. But she couldn't really resist, especially after he gave her _the_ cutest face she'd ever seen.

"Fine, **one**. But no more." She coveted her onion rings like gold.

Alfred took it gratefully, and munched it down faster than anything else, making happy noises all the while.

"Shit, this is great. I can't believe this. This is…way too good. Mattie, let me taste that."

Matthew had his burger poised to take a bite out of, and froze. "Huh?"

But before he could say no, Alfred bit into it, and Matthew yelled at him angrily.

"Hey! You just _ate_ yours!"

"_Whooooaaaaaa…_" Alfred sank back in his seat, floored. "What the hell is that _sauce_?!"

The girl smiled. She knew. But she wasn't about to tell Alfred.

"It's a company secret. I'm liable to have my tongue cut out if I told you."

Alfred frowned. "Company secret, eh? You work for these guys?"

"Did," the girl replied. "Got fired for eating a pickle. They said it was off the burger I was making. It was really off my hand." She sighed. "My mom works here now."

"You gotta tell me," Alfred pleaded.

She shook her head. "No way."

Alfred seemed desperate. "I'll…I'll tell you the secret to McDonald's secret sauce!"

"Mayonnaise and tarter sauce," she replied automatically, and Alfred froze.

"H-how…?"

"I ate there a few times, sadly," she replied, stiffly. "I know tarter sauce when I taste it."

Alfred sat back, defeated. He had nothing left to use as leverage except threats, but Matthew gave him a look that said he shouldn't.

The girl was laughing inside. To think, Alfred F. Jones, the United States of America, was desperate to know the secret of a special sauce, which was actually nothing more than Thousand Islands Dressing.

She thought she'd explode from the withheld laughter.

---

The three ate the apple turnovers on the way back to the girl's house, and Alfred admitted they were good. He also admitted that he'd like to eat there again sometime.

Matthew grinned happily. Alfred was stubborn, but even he knew when to give.

"Now if you'll only eat sensibly, you could…"

"Don't push it, Matt."

The girl smiled at the two Nations as she stopped in front of her door. "You know, I'm shocked. I mean, I should be freaking out, you know? A couple of _Nations_ show up at my house, and run off with me to have lunch." She smiled. "I _must_ be as crazy as they say, because the idea seems pretty _normal_ to me."

Matthew smiled. "A person who sees fairies is rather open-minded. Even Arthur admits that that's probably why you accepted all of this so easily."

Alfred coughed a word into his hand, and Matthew ignored him.

"Anyway," Matthew continued. "I'll talk to Arthur to see what is going to happen from now on. But I think I'll try to keep Alfred from interrupting any more of your baths."

"Thanks," she said with a smile.

Alfred hugged her suddenly. She was overwhelmed with his usual scent of fast food and Folgers coffee, but underneath it was something vaguely…familiar. She breathed deep, trying to figure out what it was, but he let go finally, and she smiled weakly.

"What was that for?" she asked.

"Dunno," Alfred said, shrugging. "It was this nagging little feeling. Let's see…came from…" he started poking at his chest then, one eye squinted in concentration. "Here? No, too high. Here? No, lower…lower…too low. Aha!" His fingers stopped on the joint in his ribcage, and he smirked.

"Right here. Illinois."

She smiled again, even weaker, as she felt heated tears come to her eyes. She understood the significance of that place, even if Alfred didn't.

"H-hey! Don't cry!"

"I'm okay…" the girl sniffed. "Sorry, just…sentimental…"

"What's in Illinois?" Matthew asked softly, and the bear in his arms seemed to be staring intently at something on the ground.

The girl smiled. "My boyfriend."

Both twins looked at her, surprised. "You mean…a long-distance relationship?" Alfred seemed shocked.

She nodded. "We met online. It's hard, but we've made it two years so far." She smiled wistfully. "I really want to meet him, but getting a passport is like pulling teeth around here. Not to mention time off is impossible."

"Ours isn't as hard, but there are times…" Alfred muttered. He looked deep in thought.

Suddenly a cellphone went off, and, judging from the ringtone (_America, Fuck Yeah!_), it was Alfred's. He excused himself, and walked down the driveway, towards the alley, to answer it.

"Hello? Huh? Oh yeah, no…no, I didn't forget. What? Oh crap…no, no, I'll be there, honest. Yeah, no worries. It's cool. Yeah. Thanks. Alright, see ya, Boss." And with that, he closed his phone.

"Hate to run," he said apologetically. "But I forgot I had a meeting today. Gotta go."

"It's okay," the girl replied. "Lunch was fun."

"I should go too," Matthew said slowly. "I have important things as well."

She nodded.

"Hey!" Alfred called, waving. "What's your name?"

She realized, suddenly, that she knew their names, but they didn't know hers. She smiled, and answered them as a logging truck noisily thundered past them, heading for the Y on its way out of town.

"Okay, cool. I'll remember that!" Alfred told her, smiling like a fool as he ran off.

Matthew waved as well, walking off after his brother, and neighbour Nation.

The girl smiled for a long moment, before finally turning, and unlocking her door to step inside.

If this was the train ride to insanity…_no one stop it, because she didn't want to get off_.


	3. Grey Sky Morn

Author's Notes: Tee hee, I'm a little drunk. Got frustrated with my comp earlier, and drank half a bottle of Baby Duck, so this may look a little funny later. (Not that I care; even simple math is hard at this point.) Another chapter for you all, the second one in two days. (Wow, I'm on a roll, but it can't keep up.) Need to work on XAZ for this week, so another chapter will more than likely have to be done on the weekend sometime. Sorry this one is so short and leaves you hanging, but it was a set-up for the next chapter, where I start getting to the real plot of the fic. (This fic has a _PLOT_?! **OH YES**.) Thank you for not hating our girl here: she has low self-esteem, so chances of her getting seduced are low. , But Alfred is gonna try anyway, no doubt...

Big thanks to Crazylilchickie, who will be my Francis editor from now on. 3 NO MORE GOOGLE-TRANSLATOR FRENCH FOR YOU SPOILED PEOPLE, OH NO! Also, I love you, and you all need to tell *Asumaruu and *Katchiechanchu that they are awesome, and that the world needs more "Ask Iggy". DO IT NOW!

---

"How would you like to go to England?"

The question was completely innocent, and the girl blinked in surprise at the one asking it. Canada's face was serene and completely honest.

"That's…not a joke?" she asked slowly.

He shook his head, wheat-coloured hair swaying about his face with the motion, restricted heavily by his pilot goggles. "No, I wouldn't joke about something like this." He hesitated. "Of course, if you don't _want_ to…"

"No, no!" the girl replied hastily, waving her hands in a desperate sign that she would comply. "No, I want to go, really! Its not every day one can go to England. But…"

"But?"

"But…I have no passport…or money. And I have work this evening, and—"

"Is that all?" Her country smiled at her with a mischievous tilt of his head. "I thought you had a valid argument."

She sputtered. "Matthew Williams! What's that supposed to mean?!"

Almost a month after first meeting her country's human personification, and the two were speaking to each other like old friends. Most would never believe her, so she never spoke a word of it to anyone, but the frequent visitors as of late must be causing her neighbours to raise their eyebrows, especially given her normally introverted nature.

But just earlier this week, The United States of America (more formally known as Alfred F. Jones) had peeked on her in the bath. And then she had gone to lunch with him and Canada, who was now on her step, asking her to go to _England_, of all places.

_It's like some harlequin romance novel, except without the sex_.

Matthew took her by the hand, his other preoccupied by Kumajiro, his polar bear companion (conveniently travel-sized). "I have something to show you."

"What?" Her voice was suspicious, but even she couldn't feel suspicious of Canada. After all, he was "the friendliest country in the world". He was as aggressive as a houseplant.

"You'll see," he said, smiling. She caved finally to that cute smile.

"Alright, just let me freshen up a bit and lock up."

"You look fine," Matthew insisted. "Really."

She blushed. Compliments from him always seemed so wonderfully _awesome_. (Crap, Alfred was rubbing off on her; it was a word he used far too much.) Still, she ducked into her tiny bathroom to straighten her hair, and put on a little body mist. Then she dashed about her tiny bachelorette suite to turn off the lights, grab her shoes, throw on a coat, and lock the door.

"Okay, where to?"

Matthew smiled. "We don't have to go anywhere. Just close your eyes."

"Close my…" She was confused. "What can you show me if my eyes are closed?"

Matthew grinned. "I have to pick you up as well." Kumajiro ambled onto his shoulders, sinking into the hood on Matthew's jacket, so that his owner's arms were free.

The girl flushed brightly, but allowed Matthew to pick her up in his arms, and she squeezed her eyes shut. "Like this?"

"Perfect," Matthew told her. "Now, don't open them until I say so."

"Alright…" the girl replied. She hoped this wasn't some bad attempt at trying to get a date with her. But knowing Matthew, it was probably all as innocent as it sounded.

Her stomach lurched suddenly, and she realized they were moving. She didn't like the sensation, and fought the urge to open her eyes and see what was causing it. But the feeling made her stomach dance unhappily, and she moaned softly.

"Sorry," Matthew told her apologetically. "It's not a nice trip on people with sensitive stomachs."

It felt like forever until they stopped moving, but even then her churning stomach insisted they were still moving. She felt her orange juice from breakfast rising in the back of her throat with an acidic burn.

She was being set down on her feet now, and she clung to Matthew's arm until he said to her, "It's safe to open them now."

She did so, and gasped in utter shock.

The weather was muggy, overcast, and drizzly. The grey sky was mirrored in the large puddles on the cobblestone streets, and many small vehicles and double-decker buses were driving about in merry circles. Off on the skyline somewhere was Big Ben, a sight she knew all too well from her books and puzzles from childhood.

_London_.

"This…this is London," she gasped. "This is _really_ London!"

Matthew smiled brightly. "I apologize for the rough ride. The Hidden Road isn't kind to motion sick people. Feliciano complains constantly about it."

"Hidden…Road…?" She asked it slowly, trying to picture it in her mind.

"The Hidden Road is what the Nations use to travel around quickly, and without being seen," Matthew explained. "No one knows who made it, but only we can find it, it seems. Sometimes we take the slow route, and travel amongst the humans, but this is normally how we get from one place to another."

"I see," she replied. She wasn't satisfied with the answer, but it suited her just fine. If she were sane (which she really wasn't) she'd ask questions. Like, _why do countries have human forms? Why did countries seem to all look like very sexy men? Why was there a Hidden Road? How could America eat all that fat and look so trim?!_

But she _wasn't_ sane. And the questions never came.

"Arthur's house is this way," Matthew indicated. "We're having tea with him."

"Oh," she replied brightly. Tea sounded quite nice.

Tea with The United Kingdom.

Perfectly normal.

---

Arthur's house was very beautiful; a two story dwelling with white walls and green trim, roses climbing gracefully up the walls, and adorning the front garden in many-coloured clusters. The manicured lawn and spotless walkway seemed almost _too_ perfect, like a picture out of a storybook.

But it suited the calm, orderly Britishman to a tee.

Arthur met them at the door, a warm smile on his face as he ushered them inside. The interior was a beautiful as the exterior, with warm pine floors, and cream-coloured walls, some having decorations, others blank. The whole space was warm and inviting, and the girl took off her shoes at the door, not wanting to spoil the beauty with wet sneakers.

"Welcome, thank you for coming," Arthur told them in an affectionate tone. "I hope the trip was smooth."

"I apologize if we're late," Matthew said quietly, his cheeks stained rosy.

"Nonsense!" Arthur scoffed. "Just in time, like always. Come inside, the tea's on the table already."

He led them to the sitting room, a cozy place with a lovely table and several wrought-iron chairs to sit on. There was a large set of glass doors leading to the back yard, which were awash with the rain outside, and hidden behind translucent white curtains. The darker walls in here gave the room a much warmer feel than the others, even without a fireplace or heater, and the girl gave a happy sigh as she stepped through the door.

"I'm glad you like it," Arthur told her, his face clearly amused. His mouth was quirked up on one side in a lopsided smirk, and she smiled just seeing it, feeling her nervousness dissipate.

Matthew held the chair out for her, and she thanked him as she sat down. _He's such a gentleman_, she giggled. _Just like all those Mounties are portrayed_. Arthur took his own seat, and checked to see if the tea had steeped properly.

"Now then," Arthur said with a soft clearing of his throat. "I assume you're wondering why I invited you here." He looked at her with his emerald eyes from under his thick brows, and she smiled again.

"Well, yes…" She tried to be polite. The last think she wanted was to offend Great Britain, a nation who believed wholly in manners and etiquette.

"I invited you here so that I may discuss this current, err, _situation_, as it were." He seemed to be searching for the right words.

Matthew, meanwhile, having sat down and removed his coat, was busy rolling his shirtsleeves up so he could pout the tea properly. Arthur smiled endearingly.

"Thank you, Matthew. Always the polite one."

"I try," Matthew said back, happily. Kumajiro sat on the floor beside him, snoozing quietly, and the girl reached down a bit to stroke him gently behind the ear. He responded with a happy growling noise, and melted further on the floor.

"Right, the situation." Arthur sounded stiff again. "Umm, that is…"

"The part where I know about you all," the girl answered, trying to help the conversation along. She had a feeling she knew what was coming.

"Yes, that." Arthur made a face at this, and she readied herself.

"Well, I suppose there isn't much we can do now."

_Huh?!_ That…wasn't what she had been expecting at all. He almost seemed resigned in the idea she was a permanent fixture. Which was weirding her out to no end.

"The warding veils had no effect," he continued on, speaking more to Matthew than her now. "And when I tried the erasure spells, they were ineffective."

"Ineffective?" Matthew wrinkled his brow, his eyebrows touching.

"Yes, ineffective. It fizzed, in other words." He lifted his hands in exasperation, and let them drop. "The spell refused to fire properly. Almost as if…" Arthur didn't finish his thought. "The point is, I don't think we can prevent ourselves from avoiding her, and she seems to be taking this maturely enough, so…" He sighed, tiredly. "I guess…she can continue to…_interact_…with us."

"You don't wanna be my friend, Sir?" the phrase slipped out before she could stop it.

Arthur looked at her, one eyebrow raised comically high in surprise. "M'dear, you seem to be mistaken." He cleared his throat again. "I merely wanted to protect you from some of the more…_unsavoury_ side-effects interaction with us brings."

"Like, death?" She felt her snarky side bubbling up to the surface.

Arthur frowned. "No…that's something else entirely. Perhaps I should start at the beginning."

The girl adjusted herself in her seat more comfortably, and focused on the Nation as he launched into his explanation.

Long before I came to be, the Nations existed. There is no record of how we came to be, simply that we were. Our people kept records of themselves, and, subsequently, of us as well, but there was never any rhyme or reason for us existing.

_We lived without aging past adulthood. We did not die to wounds inflicted upon us by human means, simply falling to unconsciousness, and waking elsewhere, our injuries miraculously healed. But most intriguing of all was the magic that seemed to cling to our very forms, shrouding us from humans. This magic became known as The Veils._

_The Veils were more than just a force that protected us. The Veils also concealed the likes of the Fey, and other magical creatures that roamed the world. The Veils could be felt more than seen, and sometimes they slipped, ever so slightly, revealing what was behind them. Some could see past The Veils, and these people were known as those with Sight. The Veils also seemed to part slightly for those near death, even those who did not know they were close to their finally hour._

_When I came to be, I found I had the Sight. I poured my time into learning the arts of Magic, both Light and Dark, and became a master of it. I used this knowledge to learn more about us, and all that I could. I found that we could move amongst others unseen, unnoticed, in an effect I later called Peripheral Shifting. Unless attention is drawn to the subject by the subjects themselves, the other people observing it cannot draw their eyes to it to notice, even when they consciously try. It is why we are largely ignored, and this is also the work of The Veils._

Lastly, Nations are the embodiment of their people and their land. Therefore, the life force of those people flows within them, and makes them overpowering to humans. A slight touch or graze with exposed skin will feel magnified a million times. The shock can be so great, death may even occur. It is why I have expressly discouraged human contact.

Arthur sat back, having explained all of this with extreme care, and took a sip of his tea, blissfully enjoying the amber liquid's calming effect on him.

"Makes sense," the girl replied finally. "I remember Matthew kissing me when we first met, and it—"

"Oh ho! A _kiss_ was it?" Arthur leaned in on the nervous Nation, who leaned back in his chair, desperate to escape his gaze.

"I-It was a peck! On her forehead!"

Arthur laughed, and the sound was surprisingly pleasant, like many silvery bells. She blinked. She hadn't expected such a light sound from him, given the gruffness of his voice normally.

"Don't look so shy, Matthew! I was teasing you!" He patted the younger Nation on the arm warmly. "I know you know better than to break the unspoken rules, after all."

The girl frowned. Matthew seemed to be swallowing nervously.

"I know you see Fairies," Arthur went on, to her this time. "What else can you see?"

"Oh…" The girl's voice faltered a little. "It depends on the day…I can see lots of things…ghosts, spirits, fey, elves. I once even saw what could have been a demi-god…" She frowned at this. "But I may have been mistaken."

Arthur slapped the table, excited. "That's wonderful! I was starting to think I'd never find other people to talk to! Oh sure, Tino can see them…And Matthew to an extent, but…"

Matthew smiled sheepishly. "I'm not very good at seeing them all the time. I have to really focus."

"It really depends on the level of medicine in me…" She stopped there. No, no, that was too far. She hated the fact that she was crazy.

"Medicine?" Arthur's eyebrows knitted together. "Are you sick?"

"No…" She looked away, unwilling to look into those beautiful emerald eyes suddenly. "I'm…bipolar. It's…umm…well, I'm…"

"I'm familiar with it," Arthur replied. "Really now, what are they thinking, giving such medicine to a girl like you. What are you taking?"

"Divalproex and Citalopram," she replied. She knew them by heart, because she had to fill her prescriptions every month, without fail.

Arthur balked. "Those are archaic!" he cried. "Poppycock! What _are_ those doctors _thinking_?!"

She looked at her lap then, feeling ashamed. Matthew looked rather downcast as well. Arthur had risen up from his chair at this point, disappearing into another room, muttering something about doctors and malpractice and how disturbed he was by the whole thing, and the whole stream of muttering was peppered with filthy words, so foul she cringed. Matthew patted her arm, comfortingly.

"He means well, he truly does."

"I know." She was gloomy now, gloomy like the weather. She hated being reminded of her insanity.

"Come here, girl," Arthur called, poking his head into the sitting room again. "Come here. I have something to show you."

She got up slowly, and followed the Brit into a small, cold room that reminded her of a prairie cellar. There was a long, wooden table in it, and several large pots of cast iron, both on the table and on the floor. There were stone bowls all over the place, and several used pestles, packets of herbs and other plants, and vials of different colour liquids littered the tabletop. Bookshelves against the walls held numerous tomes and books, the names on some she couldn't read no matter how hard she squinted.

She realized, suddenly, that Arthur was flipping through a particularly large book, most of the pages seemed hand-written. She caught her breath, knowing full well what the book was.

"Can you describe your symptoms for me?"

"Symptoms?"

"When you aren't on medication," he explained, patiently.

"Oh, uhh…Mood swings, sometimes violent. Seesawing depression that will ultimately lead to crashes, and attempted suicides. Explosive bouts of rage, crying fits, introvertedness…" She sighed. "The usual stuff."

Arthur made a noise, and reached for a few things on the table, mixing as he spoke. "Those seem classic, but not enough to merit medication," he explained. "What are you like on the medicine?"

"Tired." It was the first thing that came to mind. "I lack the energy to do things sometimes, and ambition is fleeting. I end up sleeping until the middle of the afternoon, if I'm allowed to."

"A clear case of the cure being worse than the condition." Arthur studied his mixture for a moment before adding something else to it. "Besides, I find that the 'insanity' they tell you that you have is, in fact, more sane than their definition of 'sanity'. I'm no therapist, but…I think you'll be fine." He handed her a cup finally, filled half-full of a foul-smelling liquid.

"What's this?" she asked.

"A tincture," he replied casually. "It will purge the medication from your system, and help re-stabilize your body. The 'bipolar' condition you have is the result of years of stress on top of your already sharp mind. Basically, you became frustrated at the world's lack of ability to understand you, and gave up, becoming their definition of insane." He smiled. "I recommend de-stress treatments regularly, and weekly tea to help calm you down."

She smiled. She was already feeling much better.

"I feel a lot of my people's blood in you," Arthur noted as she choked down the mix, making faces all the while.

"Yeah," she stuttered, finally able to feel her tongue again. "English, Scot, and Irish, the Irish mostly from my Father's side."

"Ahh," Arthur nodded. "That's quite a mix."

She nodded. "A mutt, and proud of it. But a Canadian, through and through."

"As it should be," Arthur said proudly. "No matter the origin of one's blood, it's where you are born that counts."

She grinned. "This tastes like liquid shoe polish."

Arthur laughed heartily. "Then don't eat my cooking."

The two walked back out to the sitting room then, and Matthew was smiling at them as he poured them more tea.

"Pass the biscuits, would you please, Matthew?"

---

"Arthur, is that a _unicorn_ running through your back yard?"

Arthur craned his neck to look out his windows. "Well, I'll be. Back again!" He grinned.

Matthew laughed. "Alfred always gets annoyed by Arthur's 'friends' because he can't see them, and therefore they don't exist. At least, in his mind." Matthew rolled his eyes.

"The man lives with a damn _alien_, and he has the _gall_ to call unicorns and fairies _nonsense_!" Arthur was livid by this point. "That man can be so _infuriating_!"

"But that _is_ a unicorn, right? I'm not seeing things?"

"Yes, m'dear," Arthur said, amused, patting her hand. "It just means you're quite pure of heart."

She blushed furiously at that statement. She had some yaoi on her computer at home that would state otherwise.

They had moved to the comfortable couches of the sitting room now, away from the table where the tea had been, and they were enjoying the quiet of the day.

She nervously checked her watch.

"Plenty of time before work, m'dear," Arthur told her, chuckling. She blushed.

Kumajiro yawned at this point, stretching out on the floor before rolling over, and falling back to sleep. It wasn't long before his soft snores punctuated the air once again.

"I'm sorry I'm being a bad guest," the girl apologized.

"Not at all," Arthur said, clapping an arm around her shoulders with a gentle grin. "You've been quite pleasant to talk to. I can see why the boys won't stop hanging around your place."

She chuckled, and Matthew went red. She couldn't help but feel her stomach do little flip-flops at that. Arthur winked. "And I'm sure the fact that you're attractive has nothing to do with it either."

Now it was her turn to blush and squirm uncomfortably. Arthur noticed this, and took full advantage.

"Ohh, subconscious, are we? You seem quite aware of your wicked charm. I bet you use it all the time to reel the lads in. A little flash of leg here, a little bit of stomach there, and before long, every lad in a mile radius is rushing to your beck and call!"

"It's not _like_ that!" she cried. Arthur looked surprised.

"I-it's not," she went on, sniffling. "I…I'm not that attractive to begin with, so stop teasing me. Besides, no one wants to see me…I'm not very flattering, and I'm always breaking out, and my hair never behaves, and my glasses make me look so dorky, and…and the hair! I'm always fighting it, you know! And shaving never lasts long! Why do you think I wear jeans all the time?" She was rambling now, looking for things to bitch about. She really, truly didn't like herself.

Arthur simply let her ramble, his eyes getting soft, until he finally pulled her into a tight hug, rubbing her back with a strong hand until she ceased talking. She was shocked, and didn't try to pull away. His scent was different today: of tea and rain showers and the slight hint of roses, mingling with the scent of fog and brine into a tangy smell amid the subtle allusion of musk. Her back tingled slightly, as his hand was separated from her back by a thin t-shirt, and the sensation of so many lives all together touching her was almost electrifying.

"You don't really think that, do you?" His voice was soft.

She sniffled. "Yes…" Yes, she did. She would never be good enough, not for her. Not for anyone. Not even for her love, who waited so patiently in Illinois.

"Well, I don't think that at all," Arthur told her. "I think you're very lovely." He tilted her chin up to look into her eyes, his fingers sending small jolts of energy through her. "And you have such pretty eyes. Hazel…but more green than brown…and with that curious amber ring in them…" He smiled. "The eyes of a Celt."

She blushed. She was a little bit more than proud of her Celtic roots.

Matthew hugged them both then, and she smelled maple syrup, and sighed happily. Arthur chuckled.

"Trapped now, m'dear."

"So I am," she murmured. But she was warm and happy, and had no reason to want to leave, so she let herself be hugged from both sides. The antique clock in the living room ticked steadily, and she felt drowsy. This was a feeling she didn't get often, and clung to with tenacious desire. The pulses of the two Nations were strong, and before she even knew it was happening, she was lulled completely to sleep.

---

She woke at home, on her bed, and sat up with a jolt. Was she late?! She looked up at the clock on her wall, and relaxed when it read two thirty four.

She smiled happily at the memory of the tea, and at how much she had learned. The buzzing from her overload of joy made her tingle, and she seemed to float off her bed a few inches.

It was Friday, she realized. Friday was good, because it meant tomorrow was Saturday, and she'd have to weekend to do nothing but laze around and work on things that she'd been behind on. Like her dishes. Or her carpets, which desperately needed a vacuuming. She hummed happily, completely satisfied.

So it shocked her utterly when she opened her door Saturday morning to see a rather nervous Arthur standing there, sheepishly smiling.

"Arthur…?"

"Good day, m'dear," he said stiffly. "I, ahh, I came to ask a favour of you."


	4. High Tea

Disclaimer: Because, apparently, I don't own _Axis Powers: Hetalia_. Some chick named Hidekaz Himaruya does. Huh. Who knew?

Author's Notes: I'm playing hooky from drawing for a night. Hurr hurr hurr. I'm glad everyone likes this story, because _I sure do_! Also, Iggy is fun to write. He's all…proper and British and stuff. Which is so the polar opposite of our tomboy girl here who is comfortable in jeans and t-shirts, and thinks store-bought eggnog is _da shit_. Because it is. EGGNOG IN NOVEMBER. Gotta love it.

This is my longest chapter to date, because I spend half of it getting to the point. I also have never been to London, so please don't be too mean if my descriptions are a little…off.

Please read and review. I love reviews! I love how they clog up my inbox every day. I love how everyone loves my work. I love it.

---

"You…need a favour…from _me_?"

The girl stared in disbelief at Arthur, still trying to absorb this new information, because her brain did not function properly at ten twenty three in the morning on a Saturday.

Which was why she was still in her stretch slacks and frumpy t-shirt, hugging her stuffed tiger to her chest, blinking out from under her sleep-tousled hair with blurry, near-sighted eyes.

Arthur cleared his throat as he glanced down at her…_unshorn_ legs with a look of distain. She tried, unsuccessfully, to hide one leg behind the other as she tried not to look at Arthur in shame.

"I-it's the German and Dutch in me," she replied lamely to his unasked question. "The hair comes in so dark, and so fast…I can't keep up with it…so I just ignore it, and put jeans on over it."

"That's not very lady-like," Arthur admonished her. "You should be more caring about your appearance."

"The favour…?" The girl was trying to steer the conversation away from her legs now. Which only reminded her that he'd been looking at them in the first place. She blushed deeply. _Dirty old man_…

"Ahem, yes." Arthur cleared his throat. "Well, ahh, you see…I am in need of someone like you for a very important meeting I must attend tomorrow morning. And I would be honoured if you would accompany me."

She blinked. "Meeting?"

"Yes." Arthur shifted uncomfortably, and she realized she was forcing him to stand on her stoop in a brisk Canadian morning. She swore internally, and stepped back.

"Would you like to come in?"

Arthur thanked her gratefully, and stepped inside. Her bachelorette suite was tiny, and there was much awkward shuffling before they were both free of the entryway, and Arthur could sit on one of her chairs to take his boots off. She noticed his looks of distain at her mess, and quickly apologized.

"I'm sorry for the dishes and the carpet…I've been meaning to do them for some time now, but…" Her voice trailed off.

"No matter," Arthur commented absently, running his finger over some of the things in her house, noting the dust, or, in some cases, lack thereof.

"Please…make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea?" She offered, knowing the Nation would probably refuse anyway, but she didn't want to be impolite.

Arthur paused. "What kind of tea do you have?"

She laughed nervously. "What kind do you want? I've got a huge variety here…"

Arthur stepped into her painfully tiny kitchen area, and blinked with confusion at her huge store of teas, of many different varieties and types. He took it in with a wide-eyed expression.

"Blimey…"

She felt a little proud now. Sure, her place was tiny and cramped, and was definitely in need of cleaning and de-spidering (she shuttered at this because spiders were one of her worst fears), but she did like her tea on cold days, and, after inheriting her aunt's stash after she had…err…_passed_ unexpectedly, she now had enough tea to last her a lifetime.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Green tea is good, I suppose." She knew Arthur probably liked English tea, but that wasn't something she had. There was Earl Grey, which she couldn't (and wouldn't) drink, but then it would stain her pot, and she was in no mood for that. So she obliged, and set about making a cup of Green Tea for Arthur.

The Nation, meanwhile, sat down on her couch, grunting a little as he unexpectedly sank in. The girl giggled.

"I forgot to mention it'll try to eat you. I've lost things in there before."

"So I see," Arthur muttered, pulling himself out. He looked about in mild curiosity, taking in her rather eclectic hobbies.

"Do you paint?"

"A little," she said with a small frown. "My Nana is the painter, not me. I dabbled a little in high school, but not anymore." She turned off the electric kettle as the water started to boil, and poured some into the clean coffee mug she had prepared, having nothing smaller.

"Your books are…different."

She smiled. "I'm an _otaku_. Of that, there is no doubt."

"I know that word," Arthur said, frowning in remembrance. "I think Kiku used it once."

"It's an American slang term for someone who enjoys Japanese animation and _manga_," she explained. "Sugar? Brown or white?"

"One, please. White is fine. And some cream if you have it."

"Sorry, only milk. 2%."

"That's fine dear."

She took the milk from her fridge, sniffed it quickly to make sure it hadn't turned, and poured a little into Arthur's cup. "It's actually a rather offensive word in native Japanese, I'm told," she continued, carrying the cup over to Arthur. "Careful, it's very warm still."

He thanked her and sipped it carefully. "Oh, is that so?"

She nodded. "I was told someone will punch you out over there if you use it. I guess the cultural relevance of it is much nastier there than it is here."

Arthur seemed to shrug. "Possibly."

She scratched her head, finally setting her stuffed tiger down beside her pillow again as she straightened her sheets. Plopping down on her now-made bed, she looked at Arthur one more time as she reached for her glasses to put them on.

"This meeting…what is it, exactly?"

Arthur sighed, putting his cup down on her side table. "It's actually…tea."

"Tea?" She seemed lost now. "You want me to go to tea? With you?"

"Not just any tea," Arthur replied, looking uneasy. "It's tea with…the Queen."

She froze. _The Queen of England_?!

"You see, I usually attend Sunday tea with Her Majesty with Matthew," Arthur was explaining now. "And if he isn't available, I call in another person to fill in. But…" He looked helpless. "There isn't anyone I can call. Matthew is quite busy. And I wouldn't _dare_ ask Francis or Alfred." He sighed, irritably. "And then I remembered you. And I thought…you might like to…"

"With…the Queen…of England…With Elizabeth the Second?" The girl was still in shock. "Tea with _the Queen_?!"

Arthur sighed. "Yes dear."

She shook her head. "Arthur…Sir…" She was at a loss for words.

"So that's a 'no' then?"

She looked at him helplessly. "No! I mean, _yes_! I'll go!" She waved her hands about, unable to completely express herself, and unable to put tangible voice to her feelings.

Arthur looked relieved. "That's fantastic. I'm so relieved. I can rest easier now." He took the moment to regain himself. "Now then, you'll need something to wear, of course. Jeans and a t-shirt do not cut it, I'm afraid."

She squirmed uncomfortably. That meant she'd have to shave. Eww.

Arthur stood up, and walked briskly over to her closet. "This is clothing, yes?"

"Yeah," she replied. "My coat closet is over by the door."

Arthur pulled her closet open, and after a brief peek through it, he made a disgusted noise. "This won't do. This won't do at all. Most of this is horribly out-of date, and doesn't suit you at all."

She bit her lip. It hurt to think that none of it was good enough. There was a suit in there her mother had made when _she_ had been a teenager. The shirt from it was a favourite of hers, and the suit had gotten her many a favourable interview.

But Arthur wasn't satisfied at her wardrobe. "We'll have to buy you an outfit then," he sniffed. "But clean up first. You should be presentable before we go."

She sighed. "I have no money, Arthur. I can't buy anything right now."

Arthur looked at her intently. "Who said _you_ were buying it?"

She blinked a few times in disbelief. _Was he joking_?

He smirked almost coyly then. "Pip, pip. Hurry up now. London is waiting."

Now she was completely bowled over. Shopping in _London_?! On _someone else's credit_?! She may not have been a girly-girl, but even that was too good to pass up. She dashed into the bathroom to start running a bath.

---

One painful de-hair later, the girl was dressed in something from her closet, which Arthur had deemed as 'Drab, but acceptable', which, she was relieved to find, included the brown blouse her mother had made. It also consisted of her brimmed, black barrette, and her long, black, diagonally cut skirt, topped off with a pair of leggings, and her Mary Janes. Arthur had fussed loudly over the state of her closet, and how she had 'too many sets of unnecessary clothes'. (She couldn't seem to make him understand that they were her cosplay outfits.)

London was foggy again, and her now bare legs felt cold, even under the sheer stockings and long skirt. She shivered.

"The day isn't really cold, but the dampness…" She felt chilled to her core.

"Your hands are already turning white," Arthur groused. "That won't do." And, before she could argue, he had shoved them under his arms to warm them.

Her face erupted in red. She turned her head before he could see it happen.

The designer stores in London were bright and airy, and full of beautiful clothes, some odd, others strange, and even more were just plain magnificent. She stared about her in awe, taking it all in, feeling overwhelmed like only a poor person could in a designer clothing shop.

But Arthur wasn't one to dawdle, and pulled her along, scanning the racks for things he thought would do well on her. He hemmed and hawed over some rather nice red jackets, but passed on them, and made his way to a section where the prevailing style seemed to be short skirts and hip-length dinner jackets.

She cringed. Skirts, especially short ones, were the bane of her existence.

"There's a smart suit," Arthur told her finally, pointing out a dark wine red suit with a white blouse, complete with a frilly white cravat. "Although the neckpiece looks like something out of Francis' wardrobe…"

"Or a lawyer…" She tried to shake the video game image out of her mind. _Bad girl. No_.

At this point a saleslady had approached them, and Arthur was casually chatting away with her over what would look good on the girl, who felt more like a doll now than a human being. She was turned this way and that, her chin lifted, her arms extended, and asked to bow, curtsy, and twirl many times before they seemed satisfied, and pushed her into a dressing room.

"Here," the saleslady said cheerfully, handing her the first suit over the door. "Try this one on, and then come out so we can have a look."

She sighed as she undressed, and then grumbled audibly in irritation. "Maybe I should show up in a brown trench coat, a pair of high top sneakers, and a multi-coloured scarf." She hoped Arthur would get the reference, but she betted he wouldn't.

The first outfit got a few interested "hmms" but nothing else. They shooed her back into the room, and passed her another outfit.

This went on for hours, and finally she seemed to come out in one they both liked.

It was elegant in its simplicity, she noted. The red jacket felt a little like a sailor's, with double rows of shiny brass buttons along the arms and down the front, a layered lapel, clean white blouse underneath, and a short skirt to match. She fidgeted nervously.

"She needs a hat," Arthur announced finally.

And, to her dismay, they managed to find her a hat. It was one of those little things that you pin to the side of your head, and she sighed.

She could put up with cosplay. She could put up with this too.

"Perfect," Arthur cooed excitedly. "She looks a little more like a Lady now."

"Swell," the girl muttered irritably. She didn't even _want_ to know the price. She felt very glad this wasn't her expense, because she could _feel_ the cost of it all, and it made her itch.

Arthur shooed her back into the dressing room to change back, and she could hear him thanking the saleslady profusely. She smiled a little to herself. Okay, so she was a doll, but at least she knew how it felt to be _pretty_, for once in her life, at least.

---

Sunday came, and again, she was awoken early for another bath, and then a trip to London to have her hair and make-up done. She sighed irritably. She hadn't had breakfast, and she was _starving_.

But Arthur seemed to think that breakfast was secondary to her looks. She almost cried when the hairdresser scolded her over the state of her hair, and then suggested cutting it short.

"To her ears," the hairdresser said. "Nice and short."

"NO!" She hadn't meant to scream, and it startled both the hairdresser and Arthur. She cleared her throat apologetically. "No, please…I've been growing it my whole life. Please…"

She remembered sixteen. She remembered painfully short hair. She never wanted that ever again. _Ever_.

Arthur nodded. "Do what you can with it at this length."

The hairdresser nodded, and began trimming the split ends, and then carefully re-doing her layers, before curling the hair up into a rather elegant and pretty style. It was similar to something she had done on her prom, and she smiled fondly.

"The ringlets are a nice touch," Arthur commented, and she noted his slight blush.

"Her hair does it on its own," the hairdresser said, a tad enviously. "Such _wave_…it's quite nice, actually. So _easy_ to work with."

With her hair finished (and shellacked into place with an entire bottle of hairspray) it was off to get her make-up done. The make-up artist looked her over a bit, and then began to apply foundation and blush softly.

"Her skin tone is actually quite good," the artist said to Arthur. "A bit blotchy in spots, and the breakouts here and there, but it's really quite even. She doesn't need much work."

"I never wear make-up," the girl replied proudly.

The artist smiled. "You don't really need it."

After that, the artist applied mascara, making her already long lashes stand out even more, and then carefully accented her eyes with green eye shadow.

"Brings out the green in them more."

Finally, she carefully accented her mole, and sat back, happy. "_Voila_."

"Beautiful." She wasn't sure, but Arthur seemed awfully…distracted. She blushed a bit.

Arthur then drug her to a jewellery store to accent her piece and finish it off. Her feet were killing her by this point.

"Silver," the jeweller noted. "Silver is what you want. Gold is too much for this piece."

So the men picked out jewellery for her, and then she put them on, and Arthur exclaimed how much of a Lady she really was.

And when she looked into the full-length mirror, she was shocked to not recognize the woman staring back at her. She gently touched her red lips, and stared into her delicately accented eyes, chestnut ringlets falling beside her face in delicate curls, and silver earrings and bracelets clinking and tingling softly with every movement.

This woman…was not her. She looked like her, but she was not her.

Arthur put his hands on her shoulders, smiling. "Look at you. This is the lady buried under all that muss and mess."

She blushed. She almost started to cry. Instead, she took a deep breath, and said, "Thank you, Arthur."

---

Buckingham Palace was beautiful, she thought. The manicured lawns, the pristine walkways, the shining walls of the castle itself, the guards in their tidy uniforms and stiff posture, even the tourists out front who were all giggling and chattering excitedly. It was all beautiful.

Arthur swept her into the gates before anyone could make a scene, and they shut behind them with a deafening "Clang!" Glancing about her carefully, she noted the tight security, and tried not to look too nervous.

One well-dressed officer approached Arthur, and saluted him stiffly. "Sir Arthur! Welcome Sir!"

"Good to see you again," Arthur greeted warmly. "Are things well?"

"Yes Sir," the officer informed Arthur professionally. "Everything is in perfect order."

"Good. You know the usual rules apply. No photography at all is permitted, and you are to confiscate any cameras, memory cards, and pictures you find." Arthur spoke sharply, and with urgency.

"Yes Sir," the officer said. "Will do, Sir."

"Carry on, then," Arthur said, waving the officer on with a smile. The man saluted again, and promptly left to attend to other matters. The girl let out a deep sigh of relief.

"Don't be nervous," Arthur said, squeezing her hand good-naturedly. "You're a guest here. Try to enjoy yourself."

"But…it's the _Queen_," she said dumbly. "I'm just a regular someone. How do I _act_ in front of her?"

"With dignity," Arthur explained. "Speak to her while looking into her eyes, smile, and thank her politely. Don't make any rude remarks, and don't swear, for heaven's sake."

She nodded, numbly. She hoped she was ready for this, because her stomach was saying otherwise.

Arthur led her by the arm into the garden, and she was cheerfully surprised by it's beauty. Rose bushes were everywhere, making low walls along the garden, and a cheerful little table was set up under a gazebo, where a full tea was already set up, and waiting for the guests to arrive. Roses grew up the legs of the gazebo, and the large blooms brushed against her as she slipped by them. She enjoyed the scent, as roses were her favourite flowers, and stopped to smell one deeply.

"Lovely, aren't they?" a voice broke her thoughts. She jumped a little, and turned to see the voice's owner smiling at her with a radiant expression.

Queen Elizabeth the Second.

The girl panicked a little. "Y-yes, Ma'am," she stuttered nervously. "They're quite beautiful." She blinked, and tried to steady her nerves. The elderly monarch was regal, even in a simple dress suit and sunhat. The girl felt stupid all of a sudden, unsure of what to do.

"Your Majesty," Arthur stepped forward to kneel and kiss his monarch's hand. The Queen smiled fondly at Arthur, and he rose to his feet again as she chuckled.

"Always the gentleman, aren't you, Arthur? Come, let's sit, and you can introduce this lovely lady you brought with you this time." The Queen walked slowly but gracefully over to the table, and Arthur pulled her seat out for her as she sat down, and then helped seat the girl as well before taking his own chair.

"Now then, dear, what's your name?" The Queen patted the girl's hand with her own, lace-gloved one. The girl smiled nervously before replying.

Arthur turned when Big Ben rang the hour, and smiled in satisfaction. "Right on time."

"What a lovely name, dear," the Queen told her, smiling pleasantly. "Why, your middle name is the same as my first name!"

She blushed deeply at this.

"Such a charming lass," the Queen continued, speaking more to Arthur now. "Where did you find this little gem?"

"She's from Canada, Your Grace," Arthur replied.

"Ahh, yes, I see. And how's Matthew?'

"Well, Your Majesty. He regrets being unable to attend."

"Splendid," the Queen said with a chuckle. "We'll have this one in his honour then. Such a nice boy, that Matthew. I do so like it when he visits."

Arthur smiled. And the girl did too. Matthew truly was one of a kind.

"Now then, Sir Arthur," the Queen said. "Let's start the tea then. Can't have cold tea on such a pleasant day, now, can we?"

Arthur seemed unfond of the title "Sir Arthur," but said nothing.

"Dear, do tell me. How is Canada these days? I haven't been there lately." The Queen smiled fondly.

"Oh, well…" the girl hesitated. "The country is quite strong. And still as lovely as ever, Your Majesty." She wasn't sure how else to explain it.

The Queen chuckled. "Splendid, splendid. Tell me, Sir Arthur, how is your cough these days?"

"Better," Arthur replied, pouring the tea carefully. "It's much better these days."

"Splendid." The Queen gazed off into the distance for a moment before turning back to look at the girl again. "Tell me, dear, your name sounds Irish. Is that true?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," she answered truthfully. "My father has much Irish on his side."

"I see," she replied. "The Irish have such a beautiful land. I was there once, you know. Such green hills. It took my breath away."

Arthur smiled, as he finished pouring everyone's tea.

The girl felt herself relaxing a little. The Queen was like a lovely grandmother, all smiles and sweet stories and afternoon tea. She felt as if this wasn't even a matriarch at all, but her own grandmother, possibly her great-grandmother, and smiled at the thought.

"The roses," The Queen was saying now, "Were planted for Victoria. It was Victoria, was it not, Sir Arthur?"

"Yes Your Grace," he replied. "I was the one who planted them for her."

"Ahh, of course." The Queen sighed contently. "Such lovely roses…"

_So she _does_ know then,_ the girl reasoned. _I suppose it's a Leader's duty to know their country, so to speak._

"Now then, how do you know Sir Arthur?" The Queen was asking her now.

"Oh, well, we met by chance," she replied. "Through Matthew, actually."

Arthur smiled. He was glancing at her, and she caught a faint blush in his cheeks. She felt shy suddenly, and looked away.

"Like the young ones, eh?" The Queen chuckled as she playfully patted Arthur's hand.

The girl simply stared in shock as Arthur laughed lightly. "Oh please, Your Grace, let's not make me look like that now. It's undignified."

_The Queen makes lewd jokes at Arthur's expense_, the girl thought dryly. _What more could possibly happen?_

"Pass the biscuits please, Sir Arthur?"

"Of course."

The plate was passed around, and the girl took one, thanking him lightly, and nibbled on it nervously. She would have devoured it if not for her utter fear of looking like a slob in front of the Matriarch of Great Britain. Sipping her tea slowly, she tried to think of things to say if she was asked.

Arthur and the Queen were chatting idly about the weather now, and she relaxed. She had no desire to break into the conversation, and instead absorbed the beauty of the afternoon. England's trademark fog seemed to have burned off, and the sun was shining down brightly like a day in summer rather than early fall. Small birds twittered as they hopped about the garden lawn, picking for worms and seeds in the manicured grass. Guards dotted the scene, but were stiff and unmoving, almost like statues. She imagined the Mounties who stood in front of the Parliament buildings, and smiled. Matthew would look good as a Mountie.

"That would be good," Arthur was saying now, and she tried to re-focus on the conversation. Arthur was laughing pleasantly, and she smiled just seeing it. She tried not to focus on how uncomfortable she was in that short skirt, with her knees pressed together like they were, and those shoes she hadn't worn in a long while rubbing uncomfortably against her toes. She tried to focus on the Queen's bright, energetic smile, and Arthur's silvery laughter. And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw it.

A fairy.

A tiny thing, really. It was probably no bigger than her hand, and dressed in bright greens and yellows, dancing merrily in and out of a nearby rose hedge. She blinked a few times, just to make sure it was real, and then sat perfectly still, watching it.

Arthur must have noticed her, because he called her name, and she broke from her reverie.

"What? Oh, I apologize. There was this bird, you see…one I've never seen before…"

"Like to bird watch?" The Queen asked.

"Oh, yes," She said, good-naturedly. The birds she sometimes saw as she walked about town fascinated her, and occasionally she saw one she didn't know, and would stop to stare for a while.

Arthur, however, had turned his head enough to catch sight of the fairy, and grinned to himself knowingly.

"I like birds too," the Queen was saying. "I saw a robin the other day, and I was amazed at how bright it was. Such a red stomach. It was quite big too."

The girl nodded, smiling. The robins were big back home as well.

"Have you seen any unusual ones, my dear?"

"I saw a woodpecker the other day," she noted. "It was minding its own business in a parking lot near my house, poking at a telephone poll. I got rather close to it, and it didn't seem bothered by me at all."

"How lovely," The Queen said, smiling wider. "The birds must be lovely there."

"They are," she admitted. "The Loons have a mournful cry, and they are really loud at dusk. But it's rather exquisite, actually."

The fairy danced at the edge of her vision now, playfully trying to distract her, and she smiled despite herself.

And then Big Ben rang half past.

"Oh my, tea's over already…" the Queen sighed. "It was quite lovely today."

"It was, Your Majesty."

"Please, bring this lovely lady along with you again sometime, Sir Arthur," the Queen told him. "She's quite lovely company. Quiet, just like Matthew."

She blushed, and stood as Arthur stood. The Queen was preparing to return to her duties after her nice long tea.

Arthur offered his arm to the Queen, and she took it gratefully, walking beside him with a smile, as the girl followed a step behind. It was quiet surreal to her, to be in the presence of the Queen of England, and to be offered to come again, because she was 'pleasant company'. She smiled happily to herself.

Arthur dropped his Queen's arm as she prepared to separate ways with him. He took her hands in his, and gently kissed them. "I shall return soon, Your Grace, but I must return this young lady home first."

"Oh, but of course. Always the gentleman." She smiled warmly, and waved to the girl to come closer, which she did. "It was a pleasure meeting you, m'dear. Please, come again soon for tea."

"I would love to, Your Majesty," was her reply as she held the Queen's hands in her own.

And then the Queen was off, ushered away by attendants and guards to see her safely to her next destination. She waved to the crowd outside the gate, who cheer and take pictures. Arthur frowned at this.

"We'll leave by the back gate," he says quietly to her.

She nods, understanding Arthur's fear of cameras. Memories could be tampered with, but photos were dangerous proof of the Nation's existence, and needed to be dealt with cautiously.

Arthur took her by the arm, and led her gently to the back gate. "Wasn't that nice?"

"Very," she replied happily. "The Queen's so sweet, like my grandmother or someone like that."

Arthur chuckled at this. "She is very much a devoted grandmother. She treats Matthew like a son whenever he visits as well." He winked at her. "I think she's taken a fancy to you."

"Oh?"

There was silence for a bit then, and then Arthur said, "So, you saw the fairy too then?"

---

The journalist took his memory card out of his camera at that point, putting a fresh one in, and putting the full one into his gum package. Stuffing the gum back in his inner jacket pocket, he readjusts his camera to try to get more pictures of the Queen and her entourage. There are new people today, he thinks. New people he's never seen. There's a girl with lovely dark hair. She's never been there before.

_Snap snap snap_.

"Excuse me, Sir?" The voice isn't demanding, but it's defiantly crisp. "May I see your camera?"

"Oh, this?" The journalist curses silently. He knows he's outside the designated picture zone, and he's aware that his card will be confiscated for this. The Guard is impassive as he removes the card from the camera, and returns it to the journalist.

"So sorry," the journalist apologizes. "I was with the group, you see, but I wasn't gettin' a good view on account of everyone blockin' me, so I moved a bit to the edge here, like so…" He motions. "Oh dear, did I really go that far? How careless of me."

"Next time, Sir, please say with your group." The command is crisp and clear. The journalist nods. The Guard leaves, without checking for other cards.

The journalist leaves, clutching at the precious card in his jacket pocket. At least he still has enough for a story. That's good enough for him. He can replace the other card easily.

But the girl is out of place in his mind. Who was she? Why was she there? The questions nag at him. And who was that man she was with? He was in uniform, he remembered, a green one. Almost military-esque. But it looked refined on him somehow.

He shoves the thoughts aside, and focuses on how he's going to write his article.


End file.
